


The Hunter

by LadyZeppelin1111 (QueenBoudica1770)



Series: Page St James Guitar God [6]
Category: Led Zeppelin, Real Person Fiction, Rock Music RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Attempted Sexual Assault, Beginnings, Canon Timeline, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Female rock star, Female!Page, Gender flipped, Genderbending, LGBTQ Female Character, Page St James - Freeform, Page is the only woman in her band, Sensuality, Sex flipped, Sexual Content, Trauma, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:22:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoudica1770/pseuds/LadyZeppelin1111
Summary: Gender flipped Jimmy Page as female guitar god Page St James, and her search for a singer. What happens once she finds said singer.Page created by the inestimable Wetkitty420.
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Robert Plant, Page St James/Robert Plant
Series: Page St James Guitar God [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946401
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	The Hunter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ComingOfTheLord1985](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComingOfTheLord1985/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Bounce](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26539969) by [wetkitty420](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wetkitty420/pseuds/wetkitty420). 



> Mention of assault/attempted sexual assault. (Nothing graphic) Page working through problems and Robert being the naive boy he is.

Robert had worked on the road crew half a day that day, and was the doorman at the very club he would be playing at tonight. You gotta do what you gotta do, he has a child on the way so you do what you have to, right? But he was particularly antsy; his friend (and sometime bedmate) Terry Reid told him that the guitarist bird from the Yardbirds would be checking him out tonight, trying to put the Yardies together with new blood or forming a new band or some such.

All he knew was that it would be better than what he's doing now. As it drew closer to game time, a gigantic, well-dressed, scowling man showed up, with a much slimmer one in a 1920s pinstriped suit, along with another dressed like a Mod. Once Robert greeted them he realised the smaller one in the vintage suit was female, with heavy eyeliner framing feline green eyes and delicate, smooth hands. Her hair fell in cascading waves of inky black, way down her back. How interesting, especially in Birmingham, the singer thought. He took their money and showed them in, after correcting the huge surly chap the correct way to pronounce Hobbstweedle.

It dawned on the blond man when he went to prepare for the show that the three sharps had to be the ones from the Yardbirds, here to see if he could sing or not. Oh, Lord almighty, how would he sing now, with this kind of pressure?

Meanwhile Page was nursing a drink while Chris was marveling at the smallness and dinginess of the place and if this fellow was worth all this, while Peter sat and observed bemusedly. "So we're waiting on this supposed Adonis of Terry's," the guitarist sniffed. "I hope he's right."

"Aw come on, it's an excuse to venture out somewhere new and drink, if nothing else," the enormous man snorted. "Terry's an up and up guy. Right?"

Page remained silent, thinking to herself well she shagged him while he was woefully underage years prior, but she had to admit she did trust the singer songwriter's judgement. 

Finally the band came out onto the tiny, raised stage, and did some last minute tuning up. Another minute and the singer came and introduced the band. Page happened to glance up at the sound of his voice to see the tall, gangly, moptopped lad that took their money that Chris had remarked was a 'great rug-headed kern.' He had brushed and floofed out that golden mane and put a tight, flower print shirt on. When they launched into their set, all three sets of mouths at Page's table were open. The lad screamed out like an air raid siren, the three at the table nearly crawled up under their table to hide from the impending air attack. He sang "Somebody to Love" with such force it probably woke up Grace Slick wherever she was at in the world. He danced, twirled, moaned, quivered like nothing they'd seen before.

Page recovered first, slid her impassive yet attentive face back on. When Robert peered out from the stage he saw her watching him with interest, but he didn't know what she thought about his performance and couldn't discern anything from her face and stance. She looked for all the world like some mobster and her goons, the big guy being the muscle and the other bloke the lookout. Despite the tightness in his chest and fluttering in his belly he gave it his all, to scattered claps and cheers from college students and working class stiffs.

Robert got the knock on the door to the cramped dressing room, and he let Page in; the other two stayed just outside the door. He doubted the big bastard could even fit in there anyway.

"Robert Plant, I take it?" Page inquired without preamble.

"In the flesh," was the cheeky answer.

"I'm Page St James, and I'm putting together a band. You have incredible vocals, what I'd envisioned for this project, actually. Would you be interested?"

The singer doffed his sweaty stage shirt and rummaged around his things till he found a faded, tie dyed t shirt, pulled it on. The just past ear length hair poofed back out once his head was through the neck hole. He answered in the affirmative at last, then queried what the band was to be called.

"The New Yardbirds, at least for now," the guitarist replied. The sight of that tawny, thin abdomen was still in her mind's eye. He was young and gangly, but the ribs sticking out made her wonder if he was eating regularly, or at all. Crying shame, talent like that being wasted in the middle of nowhere. He was pretty in that clumsy adolescent way before they're fully grown, but he was tall, had several inches on her and she was tall as most men. What a force this lad will be, she surmised. And he'll be mine. "Hey, just to see if this has a good chance to work, how about you come visit me a couple days, discuss some things and all that." Page wrote down the address on a business card and handed it to Robert.

"Sure," the boy's eyes widened once he digested who, what, when and where. This sophisto was the answer to all his problems, Robert thought. She also wasn't bad on the eyes. 

Page opened the door, Peter and Chris standing there looking painfully guilty, like they'd been eavesdropping, which they probably were. "Get used to this one," she slapped the giant on the arm. "He's our manager, Peter Grant."

A few days later, Robert finds himself standing on the doorstep at Pangbourne, which Page had described as a boathouse, but which seemed like a mansion to him. He and Maureen had been sleeping wherever there was a spot in a commune with over a dozen people so this was damn fancy to the lad. He had an overnight bag in one hand, a case with some of his precious records in the other. He rang the doorbell, waited. After a moment a gorgeous brown haired woman with big dark eyes answered the door, wearing only panties and a black sheer wrap that sparkled when light hit it. "Page, your guest is here," she called in a French accent. 

"Let him in, doll, let him in," called the guitarist.

Robert goggled as she stepped aside, then he squeezed past her. She smelled as lovely as she appeared, and he trailed her to the living room. Page was on the couch when they entered the room, but stood when she spotted him. To the singer's surprise, she was dressed in a simple pair of jeans and t shirt, barefoot. Well, this was her house so why wouldn't one get comfortable in their own domicile? "Come in," the guitarist welcomed. "Something to drink?"

"Ah, tea?"

"Very good, have a seat," Page disappeared into the kitchen while nearly-naked girl had sashayed off somewhere else. "Don't mind Marie there, she's leaving."

"Oui, I'm leaving, you bastard beetch," an aggrieved voice drifted from down the hall. Robert, from the couch, heard the clack of heels, and caught a glimpse of a now-dressed bird stomping past the doorway, then the front door slammed.

"Sorry you had to see that," called the guitarist. "She's a little miffed at me.You can have a look at my records, see if there's any you like."

Once the the tea was ready, Page returned to the living room with tea for the both of them to see Robert looking through the myriad albums she had, and turned toward her when he heard her enter. He had a record in his hand, and the midday sun shone through the window behind him. He gestured to her with the record, spoke something that she didn't process. Golden crown, golden halo framed that smooth, young face gazing at her earnestly, as he smiled, lopsided but beaming smile. 

Beautiful, so beautiful, echoed in her mind. He was a boy, a goofy kid with an amazing voice, before. Now he was some god beckoning to her, clothed with all the warmth and light of the Sun. This was Sex Vision Guy, she thought suddenly, and nearly dropped the serving-tray with the tea on it. 

"Are you all right?" Robert was asking.

"Oh, oh, I'm fine," Page finally was able to answer. "Something just struck me, inspiration if you will," the guitarist blew her breath out and approached the coffee table.

Robert started to intercept her to help with the tray, and clumsily barked his shins on the coffee table. Just a goofy boy, after all, Page reassured herself. When they were seated together on the sofa, however, Page found her body reacting in ways unfamiliar to her around men, even the few other blokes she'd shagged. Robert sipped his tea, smiled.

When they started playing records, the blond lad was overjoyed--few girls he knew were this into the types of music he was. Soon they were chatting about the different artists and albums like old friends. He'd thought she was mysterious and kinda pretty and much more of an adult than he was, but she was knowledgeable and funny. She laughed at something he said and he just stared for a moment. She was beautiful, he realized. Not just her appearance, but the way she got flushed talking about Gene Vincent or Anne Bredon or how she gestured to illustrate a point or grinned when he finished a sentence for her, happy that he got what she meant. Music made her radiant, it was her element.

"You see, I want to take the music to the next level, I want there to be light and shade, highs and lows. I think that's something you can do, achieve power and grace and nuance. It should be an experience, music should change you, make you better for having experienced it."

"Rather like falling in love," Robert offered.

"Somewhat, yeah," she affirmed. "So this is my vision for this band. You think you're up for it?"

"I'm in," he beamed at her.

Page smiled back, then stood. "Let me grab my guitar." She went to her bedroom to grab her acoustic.

Robert's eyes wandered the room while she was gone, took in the expensive furnishings and artwork on the walls, the massive record collection. St James was a woman of wealth and taste, it seems. Robert felt for all the world like some orphan spirited away by a faerie queen, waking up in a palace. 

Then she was back and she sat before him cross-legged in the floor with the acoustic guitar and began strumming. Before long Robert was singing along, both of them carried away by the music. Hours later, they realized how much time had passed and realized they were hungry. At Robert's suggestion Page had some curry delivered, which they ate while talking and laughing. It was late that night when they decided it was time for bed.

Everything was polite and professional, at least until the Danmarks Radio televised show they did in early 1969. It was a great performance and everyone was elated afterwards.

Robert was in his hotel room in his underwear getting ready to bed down, when Page came staggering into his room. "How'd you get in here?" He wondered. 

"Got a key from the clerk. One of us may have to give him a blowjob later," she hiccupped. A bottle of whiskey was in her hand and she swung it around as she talked.

"Oh I try to keep the dicks of the staff out of my mouth," he joked, darted forward, and snatched the whiskey. He downed a few gulps before Page managed to grab it back. The singer felt the warmth go down into his belly and begin to spread. "So what was so dire you had to get a key from the randy hotel clerk?"

"I jus' wanted to tell you how well you did today," she slurred, then wobbled her way to the bed and plopped down. "I know I can be hard on you, but today, you killed it. We made a, a statement today."

Robert sat beside her, she let him take the bottle again. "Thanks." He finished the booze and let the bottle slide from his hand into the floor, transfixed by the guitarist gazing at him. He felt the slight buzz and something else with it, deep in his gut, as those green eyes bored into him. "Page?"

She grasped his long arm, pulled him closer. Whiskey on her breath, cigarette smoke in her hair, underneath it the faint scent of women's perfume, he took all this in before she put those soft lips on his. These past months he'd wondered what it was like, to kiss her, touch her, but it seemed so illicit. Why it should be more illicit than the girls he took to bed when on tour and him a married man with an infant daughter, he couldn't say, but it did. It was Page, his bandmate, guide into the music industry, peer, friend.

The kiss deepened. He was giddy, it was happening, what he'd daydreamed about, fantasized about like the boy he still was. Robert pushed her to the bed, covered her prone bodyvwith his lean frame.

And that's when things went downhill.

Page broke the kiss, pulled away. "Nuhh, no," she cried out. "Don't!" At the shrillness of her voice the singer backed away, confused. She shrank away from him, as far as she could get on the bed like some frightened little animal, wild-eyed.

"Page, what's wrong?" the singer's voice seemed to echo from a tunnel. "What did I do?"

The guitarist only saw what was in her memory. The feeling of male hands, being pushed down, down, a mouth crushing hers, she squirmed and shouted no.

The rip of her frilly shirt, button popped off the men's pants she was wearing, a stapler slammed into her jaw. She got a fracture in her jawbone for that, and a permanent divot in her face. Bony knees shot up, satisfyingly connected with her attacker's groin. 

Stapler in her hand. Swing. Crash. His face sprouts scarlet.

Hospital room. Questions.

"Page! Can you hear me?" Robert's concerned face was bending over her. "I'm gonna ring for a doctor."

"No, no," she managed to mutter. "It'll pass."

"What happened? I didn't mean to freak you out--"

She shook her head. "I didn't know, I didn't know that would happen…"

"I shouldn't have assumed you wanted, well, me," Robert looked away, like a puppy rejected from playtime.

"Oh, you absolute child," she sighed. Here she was having a breakdown and he's thinking with his dick. "It wasn't you."

"What's wrong?" His inebriated mind began running through possibilities. "Did something happen, someone..uh, hurt you?" He didn't say it, but he also thought vehemently that he WAS NOT a child.

"Something happened."

Robert scooted close to her, but was afraid to touch her lest she begin losing her mind again. "You wanna talk about it?"

It was before she joined the Yardbirds. She was trying to form a band from scratch, went to a label exec for help. He wanted 'services' in exchange for his aid. Page refused. Things spiraled out of control after that. "No," she declared firmly. 

Robert searched her face a moment, unsure what he was even looking for. "I'll go sleep in your room," he announced.

"Wait," Page's voice, thin and tired, pulled at him. She clutched his arm, her face naked in her need. "Please."

His resolve crumbled in the face of her pleading eyes. Did he love her? He thought he loved his wife, but it wasn't nearly the need, the feeling in his belly, his loins, his soul, that he had for her. "What do you want from me?" He asked, not unkindly. He wasn't even twenty one yet, after all. 

"Shut up and come here," she ordered. 

He obeyed.

He enfolded her in those long arms, her still dressed, and she went to sleep with her head on his bare chest. It was the best she'd slept in years.

He accepted her, accepted her behavior, because he was singular. Special. She opened herself up to him, slept in his arms, that was something, right? He guarded her body and her sleep. He has purpose. Keep this genius safe, keep her going, so she can keep the Zeppelin on course. She never intruded if he had pulled a girl any night, but he found many times he'd rather sleep alone with the thought his Page would visit him, than to fuck any of the nameless groupies clamoring for attention. 

Some nights she found birds to entertain her, soothe her, give her release, and Robert either shagged some silly hanger-on or wanked himself off and went to bed. Alone. Needing. Pining. 

It was late '69 she came to him in the night, kissed him, pressed her sharp body into his own muscular one. She wasn't drunk but he felt her need, like waves of heat coming off her. She grabbed his hand in the dark, put it against her warm cunt. Dutifully he inserted a finger in her eager depths, found her moist. He worked another digit in her, heard her moan. It was the sexiest thing he'd ever heard, and she squirmed against him, gasped. He found her node of pleasure and worked it, getting all sorts of blissful sounds from her.

"Oh, Page. Darling. Is this what you need?"

"Yesss," she hissed, her hips moving in time with his fingers. She tensed, cried out, and climaxed. His hand was slick with her moisture, he removed it when her spasms subsided. "Robbie. Baby," she murmured softly. 

He put his arms around her, and she snuggled in, grunted contentedly, and proceeded to fall asleep.

"Pagey. I love you," he whispered, but he knew she didn't hear. Was he helping her? He didn't even know. He just knew he wanted to be close to her, to be the one to give her what she needed.

**Author's Note:**

> Love you guys! Kudos, discussion, encouragement welcome!
> 
> Boy these two are a messed up pair, huh? Lol.


End file.
